Citizen Journalists — Hannibal Burress and Bill Cosby

It's been a few days without Wifi  (Ugh, travel), but I wanted to weasel in this post before the semester took its leave.

So let's talk about Bill Cosby

About a month ago, comedian Hannibal Burress made a joke that touched on Bill Cosby's run-ins with the law regarding sexual assault/rape allegations — allegations that have gone relatively unacknowledged in the pop-culture realm. The joke, thanks to an audience member who was recording the performance, hit YouTube and went viral. Some called Burress' joke, which he had allegedly been telling for some time, as a low blow, but the effects were hard to ignore — Bill Cosby's demons had been dug up, and it was due to a perplexing dynamic of citizen journalism.

First Level of CJ

If John Stewart and John Oliver have been any indicator, a comedian can be an entirely able journalist. So when Hannibal Burress took to the stage and made this joke, he was relaying information to the audience — a sort of Journalism-lite type of dynamic. Granted, Burress is no reporter, nor do I expect him to "cite his sources," but he is effectively using the culture around him to relay information in a humorous way, so he does fit at least some of the criteria needed to call one a journalist.

Second Level of CJ

This one is a bit more obvious — the individual filming took it upon him/herself to relay this information out via social media, effectively acting as a reporter. There was never any name attached to it, nor was there any organization that took responsibility: simply a citizen, reporting.

The outcomes: a showcase of cj

If you've had your eyes on the blogs and social media sites, you'll know that in the past few weeks, numerous women have come out of the woodwork (Not saying that they may be true or false, but they had been silent before and the legitimacy of their claims is left to be recognized) claiming that the famous comedian drugged and raped them on several occasions. This has bloomed from a joke, to a YouTube video, to a national scandal.

Not bad for a few citizens...

Rated AO — Censored, or censorship?

Videogames were, for some time, an entirely non-regulated realm in terms of content — violent or suggestive material was made apparent through more simple means, like box arts and the descriptions on their boxes. Take a look at the old-school title, Contra:

Now, obviously, this title is going to follow a tale that demands some degree of violence, and it did: players, even in the game's pixelated style, shot and killed monsters. My parents, with this in mind, did not allow me to purchase the title — this was their own, educated decision.

Fast forward a few years to 1994, and the Entertainment Software Rating Board came into existence, employing standardized rating center much like those employed in motion pictures. And for the most part, they make sense, with titles on the shelves from EC (Early Childhood), E (Everyone), T (Teen) and M (Mature).

But there is one rating that has never hit the shelves in the US. It's AO: Adults Only.

One would imagine that, by the mechanics of the ratings board, that a truly adult game (One featuring extremely graphic sexuality or violence) would be labeled with the AO rating and released with that degree of discretion.

This is not all how it works. How about a case study.

The Unfortunate Case of Manhunt 2

Rockstar Games isn't exactly known for making "nice-nice" with game content advocates: they've made the infamous Grand Theft Auto series, which has within itself made a stir with it's open-work, kill-em-all mentality. Though this is by no means their most controversial game. That title goes to the Manhunt series.

This isn't an undeserved title, really — as a player of this game, I can confidently say that this gory offering from Rockstar is truly the sickest of the sick. It's a steal-based title, where players skulk in the shadows, offing criminals and guards alike in the most grizzly ways possible. Smashing skulls? Check. Hacksaws to the groin? Check. Long, agonizing stranglings? Check. It's an entirely demented title, and when it released, many were not happy about the games content. To this day, the title is entirely banned in New Zealand, Germany and Australia, and extremely restricted in Canada.

And then Rockstar decided to make a second one.

Manhunt 2 was the apologetic re-release of the violence that made the original Manhunt so controversial, except it went even farther. Castrations? Check. Chainsaw decapitations? Oh yes. Shoving a syringe into the eye of a gimp-suit wearing dominatrix — that's actually in the game.

As you can expect, the reaction was not positive from some. From others, it was huge: the game was a top title, and people were ready for it to hit shelves. And then it got slammed with the AO rating (Along with a few bans as well.)

This wasn't a rating: it was an effective "you can't sell this." See, Gamestop, Toys R US, Best Buy — they do not sell AO games. In some regions of the world, the rating (Or it's equivalent) is illegal to sell. So then it begs the question: why even make the rating in the first place?

From my perspective, the AO rating can be taken as a sort of veiled censorship — a seal of death wrapped in the image of a standardized rating system. It's easiest to kill something in stealth — something Manhunt surely would agree on.

So what happened to Manhunt? Initially, Rockstar was resistant in making the changes, but faced with the possibility of not selling a title like this, they ultimately placed a strong, static-filled filter over the execution scenes — ultimately making it tamer than the game that preceded it.
What the main question is, is this: If we have a rating, why do we not use it? Is it not easier, and more transparent, to simply ban the titles? If you run it past me, yes. If you run it past me, it's censorship: these games, despite their content, are orchestrated pieces of art. They shouldn't be censored because they may prove graphic.

But I hacked the game anyway, and saw it all without those silly filters. Touche, ESRB.

Reporting Quietly: is it the right way to sleuth?

In many states, New York included, the consent to record an individual is one-sided — literally. Only one party needs to be aware of the recording, allowing journalists to record without any hindrance. This is an aid to these reporters, myself included: oftentimes the notion of recording may spook a source, and having the option to not mention the process is absolutely an asset.

But is it really the way to go?

As a journalist, I will always be honest in my recording: be it a phone call or a conversation in person, I will, on almost all occasions, make sure to mention to the source that I will be logging what they say. Why? Courtesy, mostly, but also to build rapport.

In my personal opinion — one evoked by the plight of Mayhill Fowler's interactions with former president Bill Clinton — is that reporters should make it apparent, or mention at the least that the recording is taking place. Even holding the recorder up, as Fowler did, is a worthy indicator.

Above all else, I find journalism to be about trust, about building a rapport. Sources that trust a journalist are more likely to return, to divulge more and to provide information. This is vital to the reporting process, a long as it remains within the realm of appropriate communication.

In this respect, I think being transparent, even in ways like this, are vital. Though this is not to say there will be instances where recording in secret may be necessary: I for one have slipped my recorder in shirt pocket and conversed as normal — if the source noticed is not for me to know, but I saw no indicator. I did this not for some form of espionage, but because the circumstances — a difficult, admittedly mean-spirited source — demanded it.

Ultimately, it comes down to the simple notion that when good communication is possible, it should be provided, as it will facilitate the process of reporting. Past that, however, the journalistic process must be upheld, and reporters, at least those in New York, can and should take the documentation into their own hands.

To me, this almost sounds like the classic Spiderman line: "With great power, comes great responsibility."

That, I can get behind.

A slice of the PewDiePie (Or the money that is video games)

There's an important phrase — er, a noun — in the YouTube world: Let's play.

What is a let's play?

Here's some context.

Some context

Much like blogs have exploded so have independent video games. Literally thousands of games are developed each year, and there's few ways for gaming publications, or gamers themselves, to review them.

And so begins the let's play. Essentially, one gamer bites the bullet, and streams his or her gameplay online as a sort of "ride-along demo," giving their first impressions and often a review. And people eat it up. Even I do, as a gamer — I watch these because, despite their "amateur" status, are entirely informative and quite honestly, hilarious. We'll take a look at a few.

PewDiePie

Perhaps the most popular thing out of Sweden since their chocolate, Felix Arvid Ulf Kjellberg, better known as PewDiePie on YouTube, is the poster-child of Youtube success. He's a goofy, loud, and obnoxious host, and he boasts over 30,000,000 followers.

 This has made a healthy living off of his viral antics. How much of a success, you ask?

That popular.

That URL holds an entire catalog of merchandise based around the YouTube star. It has gone past money through viewers — that's direct merchandise sales.

Robbaz

Also hailing from Sweden coincidentally, Robbaz is often the first to be playing games that hit the market — much as they do with PewDiePie, companies will send him early copies of the game to generate hype. It's a crazy notion: this "vlogger" is as trusted as gaming conglomerates like IGN or Polygon, if not more trusted as he appeals to viewers as a "real player."

What does it mean?

It's tough to say if this realm of vlogging is over — these figures stand as "kings" of the realm, and it's unlikely any will dethrone them. But the notion that video games, often a medium that is seen as mere "games," is a lucrative and universally appealing genre of entertainment. 

It also puts value on humor: comedy can make money, when one is appealing to large audience of people looking to have fun. Fun!

Fun?!
That's right, fun is making money now. Normal people having fun, as a matter of fact, is making money. Even more, it's young normal people having fun. This is the best way to see the free market of the internet: these individuals are, through this trade, a bunch of different things. They're professional gamers, in the respect that their gaming makes money. They're comedians, in the respect that they often are commended for their humor (PewDiePie describes himself as "...a guy from Sweden who likes to laugh and make other people laugh.") and they are essentially gaming journalists.


That's a pretty decent resume!

Smart Alec

Consider this just a simple reflection; I've been suffering some laptop woes and I don't know how long I will have on it right now. But anyway, lets talk about ALEC — the American Legislative Exchange Council. From what I have gathered, no one really knows much about them, and that's pretty spooky. And they're impacting our lives, every day! It leads me to wonder how many legislations like this Americans don't even know about, that are happening as we speak: are we as aware as we think?

These are the sort of notions that many write off as conspiracy, or lunacy, but it seems more and more that these concepts are getting closer and closer to the realm of possibility — I'm sure that every hyper-paranoid, aluminum hat-wearer did a sort of 'told you so' dance when the Snowden files leaked.

I'm not saying that every cult-centric spew of illuminati jargon is worth following, or acknowledging past a small sigh, but is it possible that we are reaching a time where the 'far out' is starting to seem a bit more 'in?'

Take the notion of James Risen, and the rampant — may I say — political bullshit that has been surrounding his case: he will, if the government sticks to its guns, imprison Risen. The Risen who told the truth, will be arrested by the government that lied.

Maybe it's my 15 page research paper on reporter's rights that has me feeling a bit sour about all this, but with things like ALEC lurking around without anyone even really acknowledging except for a few choice Cornell faculty and a smattering of political blogs, it makes me consider picking up a few more rolls of foil and checking my hat size.

Rags to Rags: Can we still make blogs happen? (No.)

William Jacobsen's story is nice, it really is. It's the perfect "started from the bottom" kind of scenario that any blog provider would want under their belt. Legal Insurrection went from a fledgling website to a thriving, political beast, and understandably that history is going to inspire a slew of hopeful bloggers — and I don't really suspect it to help any of them.

When Legal Insurrection opened, in 2008, David Karp's nifty "Tumblr" idea was barely in full form. Pinterest wouldn't show up for another 2 years. April of 2008 also marked Facebook's inevitable triumph over Myspace. Consider this context: microblogging, or blogging for that matter was not yet streamlines and pretty, as it is now, while an entire audience of social-media-zens is displaced from one outlet to another.

It would seem to me that at this very moment, it would be like "buying shares early." I am aware that blogs may have inhabited the net for a long while before this — instead, I want to highlight the focus on them, and their accessibility. People were learning about blogs — young people and young adults, mostly — and wanted to read them.

But now? Everyone and their mother has a blog. You could make twenty Tumblrs in a day, or hop on Squarespace: having one's own page is not rare anymore. Rather, it's as simple as any other commodity on the internet.

What results from this is an unbelievably saturated market, where the odds of a blog crawling up from the depths to prominence is far more difficult than it ever was before. So for students to think that they may be able to re-create the rapid growth that Jacobsen experience seems entirely unrealistic.

However, this isn't to say there isn't a nice morsel of advice in between the lines — Jacobsen didn't make a blog. He made something new. The next Legal Insurrection isn't going to be a blog. It won't be a Tumblr. It'll be a Roomblr or some other arbitrary term. Often I see people poised to follow in the steps of other bloggers — they promote their Facebook pages, and boast over their Instagrams in the hopes of more followers, and more notice. But no one can spot a user when there's 3 million others doing it.

Success is adaptive. It's fast. And most importantly, it's very, very current. And if we are to be successful, we can't make the next blog. There is no next blog.

Why I mostly love, but also fear the "Kickstarter generation."

There's been a few hot-button words in the technology market lately. I'm going to ramble off a few, just for fun, and to act as a starting point for the rest of this entry.

• Tesla
• Quantum Computing
• Nano____s
• Graphene
• Elon Musk
• SpaceX
• Startup

That last one — startup — may be the most genuinely important one in some time. The notion of the startup is essentially the modernized, Apple-age rags-to-riches story. It's the GPU-powered American dream.

Few need convincing when encountering the notion that technology has been a blessing to the little guy — to the ones making things, rather than selling things. Sure, Intel and AMD are raking in billions a year, but there's still people huddled away in offices and often, basements, churning out independent games, films and more.

And there's a venue for this growing realm of entrepreneurs — Kickstarter and IndieGoGo serving as perhaps the most usable, able platforms to finance budding projects. They work on the all-or-nothing business model: you pitch it, you ask for cash, and if you don't make it, it all goes back to donators.

The results have been impressive, to say the least. Check out this trailer for the Kickstarter campaign of Oculus Rift, a virtual-reality interface for video gaming.

The minds behind Oculus asked for a donation limit of 250,000 dollars. They received over 2.5 million dollars. That was 2012. If you had paid attention to the antics of Mark Zuckerburg, you'd know that Oculus was acquired by Facebook in early 2014. For 2 billion dollars.

This is obviously a dream scenario — this is what you'd put on Kickstarter's promotional video if it was a college. Let's take a look at disaster.

John Campbell was a comic artist, who took to Kickstarter when trying to fund his book, "Sad Pictures For Children." To say he succeeded was absolutely true: he made over 600% of his requested funds, pulling in over $50,000 dollars. All went smoothly, for a bit.

Soon, Campbell ran out of money to ship the books, and by some unfortunate series of events, ended up burning many of the donors merchandise in an alley by his home. He video taped this, and promptly dropped off the marketplace, and really the face of the internet.

This is where my concern lies: this is by no means the first incident of this nature. What it seems Kickstarter has welcomed is a free, open, digital platform for funding. The website even requires that all the funds go to the item in question. Though there is still the notion that an individual can opt out midway through, and can, literally, burn his donors money.

So what's the point of this ramble? I suppose it's an admiration of what Kickstarter is — a microcosm of collaboration, or a mass incubator. At the same time, I suppose I am also venting a degree of my own anxieties — what are the implications of people skimping out, ditching products, or duping customers? Can we even moderate this, what is essentially the creative process of inventors?

I don't know, all I know is I want an Oculus Rift.